Love an Angel?
by RJDaae
Summary: Is it a sin, to fall in love with an angel? Oneshot, LerouxKayALW based, EC. Please R&R!


A/N: Sorry, but this is just a one-shot, so don't make me feel guilty by asking me to update. Please read, and if you have time, leave a review. I write better if I know that people appreciate it.

Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera (and neither does ALW). PotO belongs to Gaston Leroux.

**Love an Angel?**

For the most part, I've always been a good girl, despite my odd upbringing: first travelling with my father, and later, having to live amongst the near-constant immorality that is the world of an opera house. That's not to say that I've not faced temptation in my life. I have, and not enticement of the sort that might get me excommunicated, quite the contrary. Possibly the worst time was the incident last year, when Raoul came around. My dear sweet friend… how handsome he had grown! Yet, even then, I knew that I was not fated to lead an ordinary life, marry, raise a family, or anything. My life was in my music, and I was content. I somehow managed to convey as much to Raoul, though it did take a few attempts before he seemed to understand. He tried not to let it show, as he joked that he'd be cut from his family's estate if he wed an opera girl anyway, but I could still tell that he was hurt.  
We shared a small dinner at a quiet café, and then parted ways as friends. I neglected to mention the Angel; even as a child, Raoul hadn't believed in such 'nonsense', and I had no reason to believe that he would have changed after a few years in the Navy.

The Angel… and there lies the source of my current worry. As I mentioned before, I've managed to avoid all but the smallest of sins… but now I fear that I may have committed one of the worst, my fear of it's wrongness so great that I would not even consider posing my question to a priest, who might give me an answer.

My fear is that I may have fallen in love with the Angel of Music.

Now that I've written it, and see it on the page, it somehow doesn't seem as horrible as it did a moment ago. Can it be a sin to love an angel? I doubt that it's a situation that many find themselves in.

He will be here soon. I lay down my quill, swivelling on my chair to face out into the room, away from my vanity table.

"Christine," his voice softly drifts through the walls. When I first heard his voice, I was sure he was just another singer, in the next room along from mine. How I now wish that that was the case!

"Yes, Angel, I'm here. I'm ready for my lesson." I imagine him nodding, lifting a violin to his shoulder as he begins to play a simple scale for my warm-up. I no longer need to concentrate while singing scales, so ingrained in my mind are the graduating notes. My voice climbs up one octave, then I start again, and continue another note up. My mind wanders, wondering if I should mention my worries to my Angel. He is really the only friend that I have; I would never consider confiding in Meg about something this serious, the little gossip that she is. Maybe I would ask him, if the question didn't involve himself.

"Christine." My head twists once more toward the voice.

"Yes?" I question nervously.

"You seem distant, child," he sounds concerned; you couldn't hear the worry in his voice, but I could tell simply by the fact that he had called me 'child'. He hardly does that anymore, only when I am acting oddly, which was more and more often now. I open my mouth, but find my throat too dry to speak. I swallow, and manage to force words out.

"Everything is fine, Angel. I was just thinking." I should have known that it wouldn't be that easy.

"Thinking on what, Christine?" My only answer is silence. "Christine?" he inquires more forcefully.

"I fear that I have sinned," I blurt out.

"What? How?" he asks, sounding uncharacteristically puzzled.

"I'm not sure if I can tell you…"

Now is his turn to be silent, presumably as he tries to think of what I had could possibly have done. Finally, he seems to give up, and questions me once more. "Please, my dear, tell me what so disquiets you." I can feel my throat seeming to close and I attempt to come up with a convincing explanation. "You needn't worry about embarrassment, Christine. I'm not much of one to gossip." He chuckles off-handedly at his own joke, but it's a slightly nervous sound.

"I do not fear for my pride, Angel. I hesitate because it involves you, and I'm not sure, well, of anything, actually…" I trail off, sounding as awkward as I feel. I shift in my chair, fiddling with the lace hem of my ballet practise-skirt. "You must wonder how any Angel could be involved in a sin," I attempt a chuckle, hoping to break the odd silence that has descended on the room. It doesn't work.

Finally, "You have truly baffled me, Christine. If you would care to enlighten me as to the answer, I would greatly appreciate it." _Ma Dieu…_ Now what? Should I say it? I'll sound quite stupid… it sounds odd, even in my head. How does one explain having fallen in love with a voice? Who could ever understand that situation? What does it matter, anyway? Even if I do tell him, it won't be enough to narrow the separation between Heaven and Earth. But that doesn't matter either. I will never rest until I've said it; I can only hope that my Angel won't be forced to leave me forever. I say a silent prayer, and take a breath, deep, as I do while singing.

"I truly do not expect you to understand this, Angel; I can barely comprehend it myself. Nor do I expect that my telling you will do anything to change the circumstances. But I cannot rest without resolving it."

"Yes, tell me, Christine," he urges me on.

"I believe that I am in love," I choke out.

Again, silence, but he's not gone; I can still feel his presence. "Has the young comte returned from the Arctic?" he says, slightly bitterly.

"Young comte?" I repeat, wondering to whom he refers.

"Yes. Or was he a vicomte? The de Chagny boy…" I didn't know that he had ever known about that.

"Raoul? No, I've not seen him since last year." My mind returns to the present, remembering why he had mentioned my friend in the first place. "I'm not in love with him, in any case."

Another long pause follows my reply, as if the Angel is carefully considering his words. "Who then? Surely one as beautiful as you will have attracted a fair pack of young nobles." I can feel his presence slipping away, leaving me with my unresolved issue.

"No, I have no time for young dandies, with their gilded chateaus and finely tailored suits," I say, skirting around the issue. "You know that music is my life, and my only love," I say, more quietly. "Angel, please don't go," but I know it's of no use. Then I hear something odd. Was it a sob? He's returned, I can tell. "Angel?" I call experimentally.

"You were correct, Christine, when you doubted that I would understand. Please, my dear, clarify your statements," his voice sounds normal again, but with a very slight edge to it.

"I wish to know… if it's a sin, to love an angel."

"Do you believe yourself guilty of such a crime, child?"

"Yes," I nod my head in agreement. "Yes, I do." He doesn't reply this time, so I continue, answering what would have surely been the next question. "How many other angels do I know?" And now came the longest pause of all. The clock ticked away on the table in the corner, making the entire atmosphere of the room seem heavy, time slowing more with each _tick-tock_.

"You don't know _any_ angels, Christine." His tone is odd, empty. "_I'm_ hardly even a man."

"What?"

"I'm not an angel…" another small sob. "Nor will I ever be one. It wouldn't come as a surprise if the Devil himself rejected me for how I've deceived you…"

I struggle to understand, but my already confused thoughts have now become hopelessly muddled. One thing seems to float to the surface. "You're a man?"

"Yes, Christine. That is all that I am. A terrible, reclusive, deceitful man."

"Where are you?" I am too curious to be angry about the fraud, although I know the anger will come later. "Come so I can see you."

"I cannot let you see me, Christine." he ignores my first question.

"Why?"

"Because, you would hate me, if you do not already."

"How could I hate you by seeing you? I love you, Angel."

"Don't say that, Christine. You don't love me… You love the voice, the 'Angel', not me, not the man who you speak to now…"

"Is there truly something so terrible beyond the Angel's 'mask'?" I question, wondering why he refuses to show himself.

"If you could only know how eloquently and ironically you have spoken, my dear. I only fear that you will hate me."

"I promise that I won't hate you…" I sense him leave, but then, before it could register, he was already back. "I promise," I reaffirm.

"Very-," he pauses. "Very well…" I look towards the door, waiting for the hinges to swing forward and reveal my 'Angel', but curiously, nothing happens. Then I hear an odd grating behind me, and turn to see that the mirror glass has miraculously slid back. I gasp as I catch my first glimpse.

He is tall, quite extraordinarily tall, in fact; well over six feet. He wears what is clearly an expensive set of evening clothes, and a wide-brimmed felt hat. I feel slightly bad about my previous comment complaining of dandies in fine clothing. Covering his entire face, except for his mouth, chin, and jaw, is a white mask, it's smooth surface refracting the gaslights eerily. Now I understood why he found my words so uncanny.

I walk towards him, where he stands, one foot outside of the mirror frame, and one in. I reach for his hand, beckoning him to come the rest of the way, and then sit on the chaise lounge. I pull over my vanity chair, and sit in it, facing him, with my elbows resting on my knees, and my chin balanced against the palms of my hands.

"What is your name?" I finally ask, as he looks increasingly uncomfortable under my scrutinizing eyes.

"…Erik."

"Erik…?"

"Erik. That is all. I can't recall my father's name."

"What _does_ lie beneath my Angel's mask?" I repeat my previous question, but with different meaning upon this revelation.

"That is what I cannot show you. You would truly hate me."

I remember something, then. Joseph Buquet, the sceneshifter who had worked at the Opera before he was killed in a brawl… He was always one to tell tales of 'Monsieur le Fantôme', our resident opera ghost. He had said that the ghost was of a man who had died of a terrible plague, one that left his corpse so horribly scarred, that he was buried in a mask. It is a rather eerie coincidence. "Monsieur Erik, do you know anything of the Phantom?"

I imagine that the visible portion of his jaw pales a bit at my question, but then he swallows, and nods his head. "I wish to give you the truth that I have denied you, Christine. I do not simply 'know of' the ghost… I am the ghost."

I'm not as surprised as I would have expected myself to be. "Is your face truly as horrible as is said?" I'm aware of the impertinence of my question, but I am not able to trap it and prevent it's escape from my throat, and into the room.

"It is beyond the descriptions of the ballet girls and chorus members."

"May I see?"

"No. You will never see it, Christine."

Again, my curiosity overrides all other feelings and logical thoughts. I lean forward, and he draws back slightly, looking warily at my hand. Before he can retreat farther, I reach toward the back of his head, and pull loose the knot securing the piece of white leather. It falls from his face, and his eyes fill with rage and confusion, but still dominated with fear.

Before he can react, I move my hand to the side of his face, and look into his golden eyes, the two twin spots of beauty in his hideous, cadaverous face. "Do you see, Erik? Do I look as if I hate you now?" I ask, hoping that my face doesn't project my horror at Erik's plight. I must do a fairly good job, for he doesn't break the eye contact, continuing to stare back at me, his eyes searching mine desperately.

"You don't hate me…" he repeats in wonder.

"No, I don't hate you," I attempt a smile, but it becomes slightly mangled as I allow my gaze to more closely examine the rest of his face. "Erik… how did this happen?" I ask, raising my hand slightly.

He flinches at my movement, and I feel pity for my teacher. I brush back a strand of hair that has fallen in his eyes. "I was born this way…" My poor Angel!

I do not hate him… do I still love him? I hadn't though it possible to fall in love with a faceless Angel, but now I question whether or not I could love a man who is also relatively faceless, but in a very different, more gruesome way. But his eyes! They shine brightly in the dim half-light of the dressing room, a colour that reminds me of the saffron silk gowns that ladies wore to balls during the past autumn. They hold me under their spell, even though his gaze is directed at a bare spot in the rug.

"Erik?"

He is, understandably, hesitant to meet my eyes, but he does eventually. "Yes?"

"I love you." I wait, to see if I will get a response in kind. Surely that had to be his motivation in his desperate plot to establish a connection with me.

I can see tears welling up in his eyes, but he manages to hold them back. "Do you, Christine? Do you love Erik, or the Angel of Music? I can easily see you preferring the Angel, over Erik's sorry carcass." Bitterness, again. He seemed to have that in no short supply.

"I love Erik," I assure, and try to inch my chair a tiny bit closer, no easy feat with as the metal claw-feet protest my actions, digging themselves into the carpet. I wish that I had allowed the ballet boys to nail casters to the feet when they had offered. "Does Erik love Christine?"

His mouth moves, but his voice is too soft for me to interpret. "Pardon me?"

He coughs, his throat sounding rough, and then tries again: "Yes… Erik loves Christine above his own life… above the lives of every man and woman in Paris." Such words from anyone else would be taken as mere prettiness, but I was, for some reason, greatly inclined to believe Erik's great seriousness.

"Now what?" I ask, suddenly aware that I know nothing of love, besides the fact that I had fallen victim to it. Then something else strikes me: the Angel of Music didn't exist, or if he did, he hadn't deigned to visit me. My father had been wrong. All my illusions lay scattered in sparkling fragments on the floor, imbedded in the carpet. Without warning, I begin to cry.

"Christine? Why do you cry, my dear?" even though the lines of dry tears still trail down his face, shiny in the gaslight.

"My father said that he would send me the Angel of Music…" I mumble, feeling as much a child as I had when my father died. "If you aren't an angel, then my father was lying…" I cover my face in my hands, suddenly ashamed to have ever believed a word of my father's talk.

"Christine," his voice is soft, and I feel his hand on my shoulder, hesitant, just the fingertips, before he lays it flat, palm-down, and cautiously strokes my back. "Your father didn't lie to you, child. He was trying to help you. Imagine if you hadn't had his stories…"

"I would have gone mad at his death," I finish Erik's thought, sniffling slightly.

"So do you see, Christine? He did it for love of you, not in spite." I lean against the comforting pressure of his hand as I try to control my tears. Bringing a fist to my eyes, I stubbornly rub at the tears, willing them to stop falling. "Many things have happened for love. Civilizations has risen and fallen, kingdoms lost, lives destroyed. You cannot hold anything against your father."

Finally, I give up on stopping my tears, and move the last few inches toward Erik, leaving my chair, and sitting beside him on the chaise. He seems baffled by my move, but I manage to bury myself in his reluctant embrace before he has the chance to pull away. "Though, Erik…" I say, my voice muffled against the black wool of his cloak.

"Yes, Christine?"

"I suppose that he wasn't entirely wrong," I sniffle.

"How so?"

I look up briefly, smiling through my tears. "Well, you've been quite a good Angel of Music for me. You taught me to sing, after all."

He takes a moment to reflect on this, and although I can't see it, I'm sure that he nodded. "Yes, I suppose that I did turn out to be a fairly decent angel," he makes a noise which could have been an attempt at a chuckle, from one not used to laughing.

We sit like this for awhile, my arms wrapped around his waist, my face against his jacket, his long fingers brushing lazily up and down my back, simply enjoying each other's company. Although I'm also doing something else: I'm steeling up my courage to make my boldest move thus far. The clock strikes 11 o'clock, and I know that I've stalled as much as I can. Mama will be expecting me home in a few minutes. I draw back, and Erik looks at me curiously, wondering why I have broken our comfortable embrace.

"I love you, Erik," I say, for what seems like the umpteenth time that evening, and look into his eyes, to distract myself from the rest of his face.

"I love you, too, Christine," he replies suspiciously, his left eyebrow raised. Soon, the one on the right follows, as I lean closer forward, and press my pretty mouth against Erik's ragged lips. He suddenly grabs my arms, and holds me back away from him, so that he can search my eyes once more.

"Chr-Christine…?" he whispers, brokenly. He lets go of my arms, and watches to see what I'll do next. I move back to my spot, leaning against his shoulder, and reach my hands up, tilting his head to face me. Then, I kiss him again. This time, although he opens his eyes to watch me curiously, he doesn't pull away. He doesn't do much of anything, just sits still and lets me kiss him.

This time I break the kiss, leaning back just enough so that my eyes can focus on his. He seems about to speak, but then a knock comes at the door. "Mademoiselle?" a voice calls. I look to the clock; it's quite late. Mama must have sent our maid after me.

"Just-" I choke slightly, catching the look of panic in Erik's eyes. "Just a moment, Suzette. You can wait for me in the lobby," I continue, our gazes remaining locked.

"Yes, Miss Daaé," and we hear the clicking of her shoes fading away down the hall. I look away now, my mind finally catching up to actions, and alerting me to the absolute awkwardness of the moment. Why did I act as I had? It was extremely imprudent of me. I began to feel more tears stinging my eyes, and tried to blink them back.

"I apologize, Erik. That was quite impetuous of me." My eyes settle across the room, on the powder puff that lay on my vanity.

In my peripheral vision, I can see the struggle that he faces before he manages to bring his hand to my face. He strokes one thumb down my left cheek comfortingly, but makes no attempt to turn me to face him. "No, Christine, you have nothing to apologize for. You merely caught me by surprise." He raises his other hand, reaching for the right side of my face, and gently turning my head towards him. "In all time that I've known you, you've not once done anything that warranted an apology. Perhaps, though, the occasion when you tore the ribbons on little Giry's ballet slippers." I chuckle softly, remembering how mad Meg had been at me. He smiles… or, I think he smiles. It's more in his eyes than his distorted mouth.

So he isn't upset with me. I shift a bit closer, and close my eyes. It takes him a moment, but he finally seems to understand, and I can fell him lean towards me slightly, before he very softly, almost hesitantly, covers my mouth with his. He draws back after just a moment, but then tries again. I kiss him back, and he returns it, sighing softly against my lips.

Another knock on the door, but we disregard it for a moment, until the voice comes again. "Mademoiselle… I really am sorry that I am being such a bother, but Madame Valerius seemed truly worried, and-" I somehow stop, and turn towards the door, attempting to catch my breath.

"Suzette, I'm sorry," I gasp in a rough breath, "I'll be but a few moments. Just- just go back to the lobby." I can hear her disgruntled snort, and once again, her footsteps retreat away from my dressing room. I turn back to Erik. "I can't worry Mama," I say; as reluctant as I am to leave, I would never be so cruel to my benefactress.

"No, you mustn't do that," he agrees. I move to stand, pulling Erik up with me. His mask still lies on the ground at the foot of the chaise lounge, I bend and pick it up, holding it between my hands and fingering the band of fabric across the back, that it, I presume, how it stays on. I continue to examine the mask, the smooth edges of the leather, the worn spots on the interior were it has contact with his face, and I recall my question from earlier.

"Now what?" His eyes hold confusion, and I know that he is as clueless as I am.

"I don't know…" he admits, his gaze joining mine in focusing on his mask. I've begun to trace the edges of the eye-holes, marvelling at the beautiful leather, so finely-grained that it appears to be made of porcelain. My mind casts around for some sort of idea, but I continue to draw a blank. He reaches for the mask, but doesn't remove it from my grasp, just resting his hands on it, and my eyes settle on the black-stoned ring on his right hand. _No_, I think, _that's not any sort of plan. _I instantly feel foolish for considering it, but Erik has already noticed a change in my expression.

"What is it, Christine?"

"Nothing," I lie. His eyes follow my gaze, settled on his first finger, and he seems, amazingly, to understand. I wonder, not for the first time, if he is capable of reading my thoughts.

"Do you love me that much…?" he asks slowly, sounding incredulous. I can feel his yellow eyes boring into the top of my head as I flush slightly, and nod, but I keep my gaze trained on the mask, now examining the stitching that forms the curve of the forehead. He removes his hands from their place on the mask, and moves them to the sides of my face. I slowly look up, hiding my flinch at the sight of his face. I think that he's smiling again, looking at me with awe in his sunken eyes. "Christine…" he breathes, and I notice a small shine in the darkness surrounding his eyes: he's crying.

"You do not think it a foolish thing for me to suggest?" I ask nervously, looking back to the mask, for courage.

"If I think it foolish, it is only because an hour ago I would never have believed it possible." Did that mean that he approved? Judging by his continued smile, I supposed that it did.

"Ask me," I whisper, raising my eyes to his once more.

"Ask you…?"

"Yes."

For a brief moment he appears panicked, but quickly regains his composure, and lifts his right hand, removing the ring from his finger. He swallows, and then reaches for my hand, holding it between us. "Are you certain, Christine?"

"Yes." Of course I am certain. I had prayed that my Angel were real, and I had received my wish. There was nothing that could make me throw all of that away now.

"Christine…" his voice broke, and he took a moment before starting again. "Christine, will you let me have the honour of becoming your husband?"

"Yes, Erik," I say, letting him slide the ring onto the appropriate finger on my left hand. It's a small ring, and it fits me perfectly. I worry at his extraordinary thinness, that he had worn the ring on his index finger. His hands return to settle on my shoulders.

I step forward, closing the gap between us, and as we kiss, the clock strikes twelve. "Oh, no… Mama!" I jump. I am only prevented from falling backwards by Erik's lean arms around my waist. "I have to go to her, Erik. I'm sorry," I say.

"It is alright."

I hand him the mask, watching as he begins to tie it back on, fumbling over the lacing. "Let me," I offer, and move behind him, easily fastening the ties.

"Thank you."

"I love you," I say, not in reply to the thanks, but merely because it is true. He turns around, pulling me to him, and instead of kissing me, buries his face in my hair. I trail my hand down his back soothingly, wondering what could have happened in his life to make him react so dramatically to such simple words of affection. I ponder briefly the fact that I know next to nothing about this man. I don't even know his full name, and it is little comfort that neither does he.

We break apart now, and he turns toward the mirror. I extract a promise from him to meet me tomorrow, on the relative safety of the Opera roof, so that we can decide what we should do. Before he goes, I run to him, embracing him one more time, and as a thought strikes me, I chuckle. He looks upon my face, confused by my laughter, and as I surprise him with another kiss, he asks what I find so amusing.

"It has just occurred to me," I say against his mouth, "That you never answered my question."

"Which question?"

"On whether it was a sin to fall in love with an angel…" He breaks the kiss now, looking to the clock as he leads me to the door.

"If it is a sin, my Angel, then at least we'll face our judgement together." I puzzle at that for a moment, and then I notice how much emphasis he had placed upon calling me his 'Angel', and smile.

"Goodnight, Erik," I say, halfway out the door now.

"Goodnight, Christine." My dressing room door closes, and I can hear the mirror sliding back.

"Mademoiselle!" Suzette calls, I turn and follow her. "Madame Valerius is probably sick with fright, Miss." she scolds me, before catching the look on my face. "Why Miss, are you quite alright?" She isn't used to me looking so peaceful and happy, flighty and timid as I usually am. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"No, Suzette, not a ghost: an Angel," and I depart through the double doors of the grand building, leaving my poor oblivious maid to puzzle over my cryptic statement.

The ring feels heavy on my delicate hand, and I finger it gently, thanking God for the angel that He has made real.

**THE END**


End file.
